the winds say, through rustling rows.
She’s close, she shucks, she husks

and I am afraid. The Sandhill crane
stalks the stalks. At dusk, coyotes call.

Each year, fields edge closer
to the churchyard, their borders
loosened to ragged stitching

between the split-rail fences.
Only meters now, from granite markers.

Sweet Corn! the roadside promises, and I
think of leaning, mildewed stones
pressed toward softened earth.

I choose the pumpkin, fat
and bright as the moon.


Sharon Leigh has been writing since the alphabet told on itself.  A self – confessed escapist, poetry is Leigh’s main vehicle of choice for avoiding that pile of bills on the counter. Her work has been published mainly online,  with a few pieces included in print. She lives in Michigan with her four children and a moody parakeet.